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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099250">Notes of a suicidal bitch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamrock_Milk/pseuds/Shamrock_Milk'>Shamrock_Milk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Nonexistent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>None - Freeform, Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:15:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,960</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamrock_Milk/pseuds/Shamrock_Milk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A vent ig</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>None</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I hate most things about my life. The two things I don’t hate are my cat and my girlfriend/boyfriend (they’re questioning his gender atm) </p>
<p>I draw on occasion and self harm. That’s probably the most interesting hobbies I have. I like playing with the blood, thick and gloopy as it stains my hands and gets caught in the ridges of my fingerprints as it dries... sometimes I take a bottle cap and scrape the blood into it and let it make one large scab. Then I scrape it off the plastic. I also like picking at scars and wounds... just for the hell of it. </p>
<p>I want to die. It’s pretty obvious by now by most people that I’m suicidal. At therapy we have a suicide scale that is 0-10 , 0 being the least and 10 being the most. My baseline is a 6. Heh, I’ve always been curious of death. Romanticizing it even. I like slashing my arms and legs because it makes me feel alive and helps with the dissociation, even giving me serotonin to an extent.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My /chosen/ name is Lore. I’m 15. I’m a blond, with green-blue streaks of dyed hair in my bangs. I’m non-binary. I’m an addict of self-harm. <br/>I’m a bitch, worthless, dumb, ugly... At least, that’s what the voices say.</p><p>To my parents I’m nothing but a rebellious teen whose mind got poisoned by the internet to being lgbt.</p><p>To myself I’m worth no more than a few cents. sometimes I wish I’d die in my sleep or get hit by a car and die. </p><p>In a group of outcasts I’m an outcast. I don’t know why. </p><p>I deserve all the pain that I’ll receive.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. I’m bored so I’ll rant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’m so tired of everything. I want to die. I deserve to die. I should’ve been dead a long time ago. Maybe it’s a sign that I should die by my own hand. Who knows.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. ....poems</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Red crystal - crimson<br/>A bright drop of blood<br/>Collecting in my view <br/>Hang you from a string, call myself a Christmas tree <br/>photos with my pal <br/>Hope I never seen them agian </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Glitch in the mainframe<br/>Tired of my brain<br/>Casting shadows behind my eyes trying to surprise<br/>I suppose that if I had to choose if it was in my head or real I’d have to choose something <br/>At the end of it I don’t ever know if it’s me or if it’s you <br/>Our nerves are so tangled - like the necklace in your old coat <br/>I hope <br/>One day we’ll get away from the dark <br/>But until then but until then can you please stay and be my nightlight <br/>My little chandelier never made me shed a tear<br/>Glowing stickers on the walls<br/>Never hurt me at all <br/>Flames they may burn and they may sting but personally they’ve never bothered me</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Idk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Idek lol</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’m chronically tired. All the time. I hate my life . I can’t get awake in the morning or evening or even afternoon. I could take a nap anytime and sleep for hours. I look forward to the eternal sleep. I just can’t stop thinking about what I did to have God punish me so much. Maybe there isn’t God and I’m just unlucky. If there isn’t a God then I’m ready to kill myself here and now. Who’s going to punish me in the afterlife? Maybe I’ll get reborn as a housecat. That’d be nice. Laying around all day, without a care. </p><p>I hate having gender dysphoria. I hate my boobs. I cut on them especially... but still, that doesn’t make them go away. It helps though. I have to sleep with a blanket wadded up on my chest so I can’t feel my boobs on my arms. I hate how I look feminine. I hate my boobs I hate them</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Eh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes I’m inclined to tell people to read these. Like my girlfriend/boyfriend. But... it comes to mind- do they even care?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. “I’m transphobic! Oh wait I’m trans”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So at therapy today we were talking about Jk Rowling and I tried to say “I’m trans” but I said instead, extremely causally, “I’m transphobic.” It took a couple of seconds for everyone to realize I am in fact trans myself and that I misspoke but I’ll never live it down.</p><p>I’m glad that it’s there for a few laughs though. Still, extremely embarrassing. <br/>The truth was I was raised in a transphobic household and believed most the stuff I was being told until I hit like 13 years old, when I began questioning my gender. I don’t think most people understand that having a racist/transphobic/homophobic past is completely normal in the south. <br/>It shouldn’t be- but when you’re raised being taught that trans women are just men wearing a dress and lipstick, it’s hard not to take some of that in until you gain enough of your own autonomy to realize that maybe that isn’t the case. Maybe you yourself are trans. Who knows? I wish all people are raised in tolerant and loving households but personally that wasn’t ever the case for me.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Ode to cat(s)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At birth I had a cat. Baxter. She was a average sized black cat who was 9 years old when I was born. She died when I was 8. </p><p>Next cat was Splat, who I loved. A black cat with a white “splat” on his chest. He’d sit on my desk and watch me draw and paw at the pencil gently as it drew on the paper. He ran away in less than a year of me owning him. When he ran away I tried committing suicide twice, at the age of 12. </p><p>Next cat is Auttumn, a mostly orange calico kitty. She stuck around for three years then ran away as well.</p><p>Next cat is Inkou or Neil. He’s my current fur baby. He looks a lot like splat but has a smaller white spot on his chest, has longer fur and is a lot less docile than splat. He’s two years old at the time of me writing this. He is sassy and has a lot of personality. I just hope he doesn’t run away too. If he does I’ll probably kill myself LOL.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Coward coward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I want to die. I’m too much of a pussy to do so though. I’ve heard stories about kids who overdose then regret doing it and die scared and crying that they don’t want to die. That’s why my method of suicide will be wrist letting.  Easy, simple. Slow. I deserve to die a slow death anyways.</p><p> I’m gonna let shadow take over for a sec, even though the drugs have weakened him up a lot.<br/> HAH. SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH IS THE WAY TO GO, FR. THEY THOUGHT THRY COULD GET RID OF ME BUT IM ALWAYS HERE. FUCKING RTARDS! BWHAHAH. I AM PART OF YOU AND ALWAYS WILL BE. YOU FUCKING WHORE. POSSESIVE AND SHITTY, THATS YOU. I BET ONCE THEY FIND OUT WHAT YOURE REALLY LIKE YOULL NEVER BE TOGETHER. MUCH LESS FRIENDS IMAO. <br/>Alright, enough... I get it. I agree. Thankfully though I’ll always be wearing this mask, to hide that. </p><p>Anyways, to anyone reading this, I’ll explain Shadow soon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Explaining shadow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Do you ever feel like you have a dark side? Like a side you never show or properly acknowledge, but you know it’s still there. Shadow is like that but... personified. All of my self-hatred and darkness personified, into a visual and auditory hallucination.<br/>Quick description of Shadow’s physical appearance- he’s around 8”6ft, has two large horns, is completely black except for his singular cyclops eye and has a goat head, a man’s torso and bipedal goat legs. He doesn’t have a tail though. <br/>He’s weakened from my medication but I’ll let him talk for a bit. <br/>“HELLO TO ANYONE READING THIS. FIRSTLY LET ME SAY THAT LORE, OR AS I LIKE TO CALL *HER*- MIRANDA, IS MINE. SHE CANT ESCAPE ME. THE MEDICATION JUST MAKES MY VOICE QUITER, BUT WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO GET RID OF ME FULLY. MY GOAL? TO HAVE MIRANDA KILL HERSELF ASAP. SO I CAN TAKE OVER THIS BODY. HAHAH. ITS JUST FUNNY. NOBODY WANTS TO BE HER FRIEND, SHE’LL DIE ALONE.”<br/>Okay, enough. Once again I agree.... thanks a lot for misgendering AND deadnaming me. :/</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Rambling rambles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I haven’t taken my asthma meds in days so I’m out of breath constantly: it’s so I feel like I’m dying when I walk upstairs. Maybe one day I’ll choke on air or something and die. Hopefully.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Today today</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Last night I woke up with insane stomach pain. I felt awful and so I went to the bathroom because if you’re up at night you might as well pee, right? Anyways I projectile vomited directly onto the floor. It went literally everywhere- the wall, the baseboards, the door... I then told my parents (who didn’t take me seriously) and went back to bed, still in abdominal pain but less severe than before. Around 7 am the next morning, my dad shook me awake. I explained I was still sick and he left me alone. Slept in until 11 am, when I woke up I immediately checked if my boyfriend had messaged me. Then I proceeded to pretty much lay in bed all day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Shadow and Co</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shadow, ageless, he/him, masc.<br/>
Pitch black cyclops Minotaur. Literally made of shadows.<br/>
Voice is dark, deep and grisly.<br/>
Types in all caps.</p><p>Cards, 17-20, he/him, masc.<br/>
appearance unknown.<br/>
Voice sounds like YouTuber Jammidodger, but with a southern accent.<br/>
Says “kiddo” a lot. </p><p>Angel, 16, fae/faer, agender.<br/>
Appearance unknown.<br/>
Voice sounds like Bow from SRatPoW.<br/>
Says “uhm” a lot. </p><p>Light, ageless, she/them, Demi-girl.<br/>
Appearance unknown.<br/>
Voice sounds feminine...?</p><p>Unkown, 12-15, they/he, non-binary.<br/>
Appearance unknown.<br/>
Voice unknown .</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Dysph0r14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Having gender dysphoria is like having crapped your pants. Nonono, before you leave let me explain. It’s embarrassing. Uncomfortable. Awful. You feel ashamed and for a reason that isn’t really your fault. You can’t stop thinking about it either, in fact it’s probably the only thing on your mind. People who don’t know what you’re going through don’t know why you seem so uncomfortable either. </p><p>Ending that mildly gross metaphor...</p><p>Gender dysphoria sucks. Especially when there’s such an easy solution for mine: get a binder. But guess what? My parents don’t believe in gender dysphoria! And I’m not allowed to buy, own, use a binder. My parents made that very clear. The moment I turn 18? I’m buying a binder. That won’t stop me from binding until I’m 18 though. Currently I bind using sports bras and layers of clothing. It’s Texas and I’ll wear a hoodie in 90 degree weather just so I don’t feel my boobs brushing on my arms.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. We go to hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We all end up in hell. It doesn’t matter if you’re pure of heart or have a blackened soul— we all go to hell. <br/>You like to think so but in reality you’re no better than I. <br/>Blood stains the hands of us both. <br/>I loved you- I really did. <br/>In the end, all I can say is sorry.<br/>The trees bend and break in the wind. <br/>They’ll grow back.<br/>But what’s truly broken is my heart. <br/>You could say this is my fault.<br/>But I’d say the both of us are to blame.<br/>We built a house with straw walls and dirt floors.<br/>I just wanted to live genuinely.<br/>But apparently that wasn’t to be.<br/>May the wounds on us both heal.</p><p> </p><p>IN MEMORIAM</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Waiting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I found a razor blade again. I’m going to try to not use it for awhile, maybe a month. We’ll see though.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Goodbye and farewell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bye to the one I cared about. I thought about it and I just can’t go on talking to you anymore. Maybe it’ll change and I’ll come back. Who knows anymore. Certainly not me.</p>
  </div></div>
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